SEATTLE — I’ve been collecting rolling pins for years. Each tells a story, of how I came to own it, how I use it or why (and whether) I choose to display it. Some of my favorite pins get little or no use at all. I keep them because they’re beautiful and meaningful.
Like my hefty maple pin, a yard-sale find much like the one brandished by the beloved cook who taught me to roll buttermilk biscuits when I was a teenager, working in a kitchen on the Jersey Shore. And the pressed-wood rolling pin in hues stolen from a rainbow — a gift from my sister.